


The Obvious

by someinstant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-26
Updated: 2011-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someinstant/pseuds/someinstant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John took a deep breath, and pulled his hands away from his face. The pig was still there. Staring at him, with its dead piggy eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Obvious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trziarre](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Trziarre).



Sherlock, when he was bored, was likely to do one of the following: steal John's phone, lurk in the bowels of St. Bart's and pester the med techs to lend him body parts, steal John's revolver, cook up foul-smelling concoctions on the stove and then leave the results to putrefy, steal John's laptop, skewer a pig's carcass into the cushion's of John's armchair with a bayonet, or flop dramatically onto the settee and glare at the ceiling. Sometimes, if the boredom were especially bad, he would do all at once.

John took a deep breath, and pulled his hands away from his face. The pig was still there. Staring at him, with its dead piggy eyes.

"Right," he said, resisting the urge to throttle his flatmate, "I understand the kleptomania, and the gun, and the kitchen science, and even the body parts. But the pig--"

"Human analogue," Sherlock said, looking pale and Romantic-- in the obnoxious, opium-eating, Byronic sense. "Obvious. Measuring the force necessary to push the bayonet through the chest cavity and out the back of an armchair." John looked, and yes, that was the tip of a bayonet coming out the back of his former chair. Bugger. "Easier than it looks, entry wound suggests that the killer was relatively short, therefore the killer is the step-daughter."

"The step-daughter?" John sat awkwardly in Sherlock's low leather chair, his being currently occupied.

Sherlock waved his hand, brushing away John's interest in the case. "Doesn't matter," he said, flopping over onto his side. "He was molesting her, she ground the pills into his drink, ran him through with the bayonet once he was under. Tedious," Sherlock grumbled.

"Tedious," John repeated. "A thirteen-year-old girl kills the man who'd been abusing her, and that's tedious?"

Sherlock sat up like he was spring-loaded, and let his head thud back against the wall with a heavy sigh. "Now it is, yes." Sherlock's throat was very white and exposed. "Revenge is tedious. Explaining things to you and the rest of the world is tedious. The process of deduction, John," he said, tilting his head to look him in the eye, "is not tedious. It's just the answers are."

John looked steadily back. Thought about saying something helpful, something meaningful. Remembered that this was Sherlock, and instead suggested, "Why not take up crosswords, then?" just to watch Sherlock roll his eyes. "They keep my mum pretty busy."

"I have no idea how you manage to convince those women you sleep with that you're not an ass," Sherlock observed flatly.

"Maybe sudokus, then," John offered. "Or you could take up painting."

"Mrs. Hudson doesn't seem to appreciate my artistic ventures," Sherlock said dryly.

John glanced at the bullet-riddled smiley on the wall and said, "Point. Pottery?" He froze, imagining the flat with a potter's wheel set up in the middle. "Um, no. Forget that one." John's forehead wrinkled. "What about your violin?" he asked.

"No," said Sherlock dismissively, thumping his head rhythmically against the wall with his eyes closed.

"I don't see why not," John argued. "It's not like I'd mind. Hell, if it keeps you from cooking up napalm in the kitchen, I'm well for it."

Sherlock stopped thumping his head against the wall. Looked steadily at John. "The violin helps me think. It's an accelerant, like the nicotine patches. The last thing I need when I am plagued by the ridiculous levels of boredom imposed on me by the morons of this world," he said, pursing his mouth and flopping down on the settee again, "is to be thinking even faster."

"Ah," said John. He tapped his finger on his knee two, three, five times. Cleared his throat.

" _What_ ," Sherlock said nastily. "What could you _possibly_ have to suggest that would be helpful?"

"Wasn't the step-daughter," John said.

"Of course it was," Sherlock said. He sat up, his hair a bird's nest on acid.

"Wasn't," John insisted mildly. "She couldn't whistle, remember?"

Sherlock made an impatient _get on with it_ gesture. "And?"

"Had a friend pull her medical records on a hunch. She was diagnosed with facioscapulohumeral MD six months ago. Muscular dystrophy, and a pretty severe case, from what he said. I doubt she can lift anything over a stone most days, let along skewer a man to a chair with a bayonet."

Sherlock stood, thrusting a hand through his hair and making it stand up even more. "There was nothing at the house," he said, beginning to pace, "no medications, no doctor's appointments in the mother's calendar--"

"Maybe the mother didn't know?" John offered, hiding a smile. "Maybe the father's withholding information."

"Unimportant, John, don't waste--" Sherlock began, then stopped. "Not the step- _daughter_ ," he said, threw up his hands with a triumphant, " _HA!_ "

"I take it you don't need your violin on this one," said John.


End file.
